


BLOODLINES, EYES ON FIRE

by SILKCUT



Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [22]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Inscribed by SILKCUT, Mojoromance, Mojorworld, Twitter Solo Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT
Summary: A mutant deemed as NOBODY is the prized property of the tyrant known as Mojo, who rules over Mojoworld where the collective epitome of mass consumerism and hedonism known as the Spineless Ones reside. In this mindless entertainment-soaked paradise, Nobody is a vassal in charge of 'Mojofornia', and he abducts artists, musicians, and thespians across the galaxies to serve as performers in this planet. He's cunning, ruthless, and determined to prove himself worthy as Mojo's Favored One, although certain decisions he's made have not entirely settled on his conscience.In Earth's New York City, a vagabond who calls herself 'Constance Lovelace' is on the run from the trauma of tortured past, empowered only by the sheer will to survive and the gift of her undiscovered talent as a musician.An unfortunate incident leads her to Mojoworld's Nobody. They clash when it comes to beliefs and choices, all while forced to co-exist with each other. Both will realize that there might be something more to their rivalry.
Relationships: Nobody/Lovelace
Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132040





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｎｏｂｏｄｙ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **Ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ  
**

##  **༻✧**

The unsettling vastness of the universe swallows any fail-safe perception of individuality and self-interest, a harsh reminder that no one is truly in control of their lives. For the man on the plateau, he admits that he’s probably more afraid of silence than death. It’s why black holes are phenomena that he despises, in spite of their inevitability.  
  
But he’s safe here at least, in a planet more prison than home, as he lies on his back on the sand. Up ahead in the horizon, the massive pair of suns burn hot in their artificial illumination, owed to the combustion of energy which they siphoned from nearby galaxies.  
  
A humming—too fine of a frequency for any other creature to detect—fills his ears and lulls him into a semi-sleep state. Normally he could tune out the sound coming from the suns like background noise. Today, due to idle time, he decides to open the channel and let it sing to him. He lies with a relaxed expression on his face, picturing the sound waves as they map their way across his flesh. He breathes in and out as if he’s trying to filter particles out of his lungs.  
  
One of his favorite pastimes was to sort through atoms using his genetic gift. That of course would also depend on the landscape, on its composition of elements. Right now he zeroes in on the suns above him. It takes only a few minutes before he’s attuned to the nuclear power they’re chugging, and he smiles at the magnificence of the radioactivity he could taste in his mouth.  
  
He found out long ago that some species in underdeveloped planets don’t live and breathe radiation as easily as the ones here in Mojoworld. Of course, an underdeveloped planet in question was their fair leader’s loathsome favorite known as Earth.  
  
Which reminds him…  
  
A launch is scheduled two hours from now. He’s supposed to be accompanied by a few cronies, but he had it changed so that it became a solo mission instead; a quick launch into an Earth city to retrieve the next target in the docket. There are eight in that particular docket at the moment, but only one was a priority. He murmurs the earthling’s name, remembering the contents of her file he browsed yesterday, and the sample of her talent he listened to which he was not nearly impressed with as he hoped. But she’s considered quite the rising pop star, according to Earth standards. And Mojo wanted her, and anything Mojo wanted, he—the faithful pet—must always get.  
  
“Vassal,” a voice addresses him from somewhere in the sandy plateau he’s currently resting on. “We have orders to fetch you. You’re needed in the archives.”  
  
He doesn’t do anything at first as he keeps his arms crossed under his head. Gradually, his eyelids flutter open and he lifts his head and shoulders so he could regard the crony with a bored stare. From the angle where the light bathes his face, the verdant quality of his eyes is arresting, a color hardly associated with this planet’s landscape since nothing truly grows here. He never would have found out ‘forests’ existed if it wasn’t for the frequent travels in Earth whose sphere is water-based. None of the native inhabitants—the collective known as the ‘Spineless Ones’ of Mojoworld—resembled the average humanoid either, and that included himself.  
  
This place had ceased to be homogeneous because plenty of immigrants and their mixed-race progeny built their homes and livelihoods here. Some of them had to relocate due to the usual reasons of tribal cleansing and forced labor in their own turfs. Others yet sought asylum in Mojoworld simply because they heard of the very advanced technology in which comfort and convenience are the paramount goal of its innovation.  
  
“Some records need your supervision during processing,” From thirty feet away, the crony (a half-breed Helios Martian) explains as his bulging purple eye shoots forward to get a better look at the man still idling by his spot on the plateau. “Approval is required of you, vassal. We’re trying to ensure a smoother facilitation of—”  
  
The man lifts his wrist where a glowing blue bio-chip was embedded above the main artery. He cuts off the crony with a stern, “Well, fuck off then and attend to your station. I’ll be there in a minute.”  
  
This bio-chip is a mode of long-distance communication among vassals and cronies, and it’s of course voice activated. To open a channel, all that needs to be done is to keep the wrist elevated while it connects with another bio-chip. It’s not a random occurrence; each bio-chip bears genetic signature, so owners can telepathically recognize one another in an instant. There may be a hundred dozen cronies for each twenty-five colonies in Mojoworld, but there are only six appointed vassals so far. The man on the plateau was Mojo’s favored one.  
  
It’s why the Helios Martian scrambles away as soon as that order was given. In truth, the man has earned a fearful reputation. Not only was he in charge of Mojofornia—the nexus of commercial entertainment—but he’s also the chief captain for interstellar extractions responsible for procuring talent.  
  
With an annoyed huff, the man gathers himself on his feet then stretches his arms up to fix the knots on his muscles. His height and built were deceptively average. At five-foot seven, he’s not even as imposing as the Spineless Ones who are at least nine feet tall, but there was a tension in the air whenever he makes his presence known, this crackle of electricity that warns others that he’s the kind of bastard who leaves devastation in his path.  
  
For a few moments he just stands there on the sand with a distant look in those lime-green eyes that bore yellow flecks and a tinge of an orange ring around the irises. Even among the mixed races of Mojoworld, those eyes are an anomaly. His hair too was a nest of wispy silver-blond hair, which several captive earthlings had ignorantly likened its color to the dye jobs they have back home. However, the unusual coloring of his eyes and hair were by-products of genetic enhancement ever since he was only a baby.  
  
It’s only whispered among the elder cronies who were there during the Great Extrapolation, but the man’s distinction as Mojo’s favored one was because he was the only child who survived the experiments during extrapolation, when countless others hardly made it pass infancy or prepubescent stage.  
  
On his way to the archives, he passes through the only greenhouse in Mojoworld. Its construction was something he facilitated himself, inspired by the lush forestry he’d seen in Earth. The ten-acre structure mostly grew Solanaceae, and their uses ranged from medicinal to recreational. His personal preference was Nicotiana tabacum. In Mojoworld, nicotine is grinded and flavored with honey or caramel then encased inside glass containers that are twelve inches long. It’s as thin and compact as the cigarette counterpart earthlings pedaled and warned one another as harmful, but they are tokens of luxury here and advertised as Nightshade Sweets. The glass containers are also edible. It was advisable to consume them after smoking.  
  
The man chews on one while he strolls the hallway leading to the archive. There’s an option in the floor plan that allows you to glide or even float in zero gravity to get from one destination to the next, but he thinks there’s more pleasure in walking. Besides, the honor of indulgence and comfort belongs only to the Spineless Ones. He was just a vassal, and that title hasn’t earned him yet the affluence he does crave every now and then.  
  
He was greeted by the same crony from before, who rushes to him immediately, all swinging purple eye in its stalk, and blurts out, “The guest at Pandora vaults is doing something, vassal, and we’re not sure how to handle this situation. It requires your diplomacy, we believe.”  
  
“Shit,” he mutters before sauntering towards one of the monitors so he can swipe telepathically across screens until he gets to the surveillance for the vaults. “Did our guest receive the standard dosage?”  
  
“Yes,” the Helios Martian explains, “But we believe the guest has learned to adapt and we may need to increase.”  
  
“If the bitch is adapting then giving more dosage would exacerbate the immunity or aversion against the medicine,” he glares at the screen where only the thick uranium-reinforced façade of the security door leading to the vaults can be seen. Nevertheless, he can discern on the readings of the contained environment alone (as recorded in real time through the screen) that the activity inside was very much a matter of grave concern. The erratic spikes in energy levels at the moment determine that the guest was in the middle of manipulating matter in the temporary space continuum created solely to entrap this bitch.  
  
The only information they have about this particular prisoner was that they possess unknown mutant powers that apparently not even their fair leader can obtain, let alone use for his own kingdom. In the meantime, they were kept in what became known as the Pandora vaults until Mojo figured out the new kind of extrapolation required.  
  
“What are you up to…” the man keeps watching the screen. He resents this guest based solely on the fact they’re more special than him. Mojo rarely spoke of them, but when he did, his tone would change to awe and admiration. _Disgusting_.  
  
He doesn’t say anything just yet as he observes for several more moments. The calm intensity he displays during crises has always what separated from his five other co-vassals. As far as the cronies who worked with him had observed, the man operates in a spectrum of extremes. One moment he’s languid and barely moved by even the most frightening of circumstances and the next he’s impulsively laying waste to enemies by channeling those same gifts Mojo has extrapolated from his genes and improved.  
  
Aside from the crony standing beside him on his left who was staring in anticipation of his instructions, other cronies gathered now too along with a couple of curators who were there only to fact-check the records for the Grand Archive. They were not trained in any kind of combat at all, and so their fear was potent, as evidenced in the palpitation of their hearts. Sharply, the man turns to these curators and barks, “The cowardice is loud in your bodies. Control yourselves!”  
  
One of the curators is a D’Bari survivor who made it out before the sun in the galaxy she lived in went supernova since the Phoenix Force—in the vessel of the X-Man Jean Grey—consumed its energy. This was his first bedtime story which Mojo enjoyed telling, for it is a singular tale of what mutants can do when their own powers marry the cosmos.  
  
She steps forward and looks him dead in the eye. “I am not afraid, my lord vassal, not in this lifetime or ever again.”  
  
He stares at her with an amused glint in those green eyes ringed with orange fire. In Mojoworld, they bear insubstantial names, harkening to the relevance of their castes, which are often tied to the baggage of histories they carried with them. The man turns his body in an angle that would face the D’Bari. He takes note that she was called Infinitesimal, a curator, while the Helios Martian he’d been interacting earlier was Crop Sixty-Two, a crony who was originally hatched in Mojousiana.  
  
“Forgive me for the insolence, lord vassal, but dare I ask; what creature dwells in the vacuum of those vaults?”  
  
The man shrugs, like he can’t be bothered with the question nor the answer. But he does remark, “They could be a world-killer, the likes of which can match Jean Grey—” he smirks at Infinitesimal bowing her head at the mere mention of that atrocity, “…or they could just be a collective of gunk and goo that makes up the universe…”  
  
He glances and grins at the monitor as if speaking into the screen would address the vaults and its prisoner. “For all we know, we’re just housing the largest glorified garbage dump in there, which we could have instead burned for fuel or some shit. But the fair leader knows better. He will have a use for them yet.”  
  
“Very good, lord vassal, sir,” Infinitesimal concedes with a sheepish tone. She folds her hands together. The elongated fingers have a wrinkly grey skin that shimmers against the light. “Then what do we do? Will we be able to assist you in this emergency?”  
  
And the man lets out a derisive snort. “You can help by finishing your duties for the day, Infinitesimal. Labor is the highest form of pride. Meanwhile, I’ll attend to our guest…” he turns to Crop Sixty-Two beside him next and raises a finger warningly. “Do not unfetter the door for anything. The concentration of uranium it was forged in is unlike what everyone around here can handle. Even I can’t lessen that level of toxicity in time without depleting myself, and I ain’t doing that shit just to save your asses.”  
  
The Helios Martian blinks, “Vassal, what exactly are you—”  
  
The man swerves away impatiently from the pair, uttering in finality: “The fuck does it look like? I’m going to the goddamn vaults. Keep manning your stations in the meantime, and do—not—unfetter---the door.”  
  
“Hold on!” Crop Sixty-Two almost hurries after the man as he inquires, “If we don’t open the door, how are you even getting inside, Vassal?”  
  
The man keeps walking with his back turned to the confused cronies and curators he left behind. He finishes snacking on the nightshade sweet with a knowing smile. The orange rings on his irises darken.  


## ➷

The moon is a beacon that spills across the ever-dark, challenging the overcast that would rather swallow it.  
  
Poets and artists have seen the moon as muse or mistress, for it can comfort with the knowledge that in our coldest and loneliest, beauty is still as within reach as it is worth seeing up there.  
  
Somewhere in New York City, squatting among the rubble in one of the properties that had faced foreclosure, Constance sits by a window and peers at the sky with that same introspective glance only dreamers possess. She, who loved the moon for the mysteries it brings, could never seem to grow out of the childish need for magic. It has been the same kind of night as the rest had been throughout her twenty-six years, and not all of them were memories worth keeping. And yet Constance still believes that she can be happy. She _is_ happy at the moment, and that’s all a runaway vagrant can truly hold onto, whilst everything else is never guaranteed.  
  
Her next meal solely depends these days on what little money she can come up within a week’s worth. She doesn’t depend solely on alms because the kindness of strangers is far rarer than gold itself. Constance is skilled in petty theft; after all, she’s relied strictly on street smarts to survive as early as twelve—but no one could ever amass a fortune as a pickpocket (or the occasional drug mule). Besides, she could always go to the nearest soup kitchen, sometimes even a woman’s shelter, but only if she’s desperately starving. Otherwise, she’d rather stay under the radar so she can continue squatting in this apartment without alerting the authorities.  
  
She’s done what she could to keep the apartment in good condition which was mainly about storing her clothes and shoes in the cleanest room available and ensuring there’s running water every other day. That’s pretty much the extent of her concerns. When it came to termites, mold, asbestos, dust, and other allergy-inducing or hazardous substances, Constance was incredibly resistant. In fact, one of her body’s many secrets is that it doesn’t produce odor or sweat. This was rather convenient, for she enjoyed putting on layers of clothes regardless the season. That’s another peculiar trait about her body: it doesn’t get affected by temperature at all.  
  
From one of the crevices in the floorboards, a black viper glides towards the woman huddled close on the windowsill. It has iridescent scales that shimmer in the light. Constance anticipates its presence and turns her head to smile as it climbs to join her.  
  
“Do you want me to tell you another story, Sita? Or do you want to stick to our favorites?” she puts her hand out so her pet could slither through her arm and rest its snout against her elbow, as it’s done many times before. Its forked tongue licks her skin as it does. Leaning the weight of her elbow on the sill, she comes face to face with the viper. Oh, how she loves staring into Sita’s eyes like this, particularly when the moonlight gives them a strange glow.  
  
“I like the one about the red ferry,” Constance strokes the top of Sita’s head and murmurs, “You like that one too, don’t you, honey? So here goes: in the swamps of Middle America, there’s a haunted red ferry about the size of two boats. Roams around murky waters past midnight every other evening. Some say there’s a witch who dwells in it; she keeps watch of other creatures in the swamps particularly alligators. Others say there’s not even a single soul that’s in that ferry, that it’s just a normal ferry nobody cared ‘nuff about to remove.”  
  
Sita hisses as half of its scaly body rises into the air, the form swaying lightly as it regards its owner with a beady stare. Constance is undisturbed as she goes on, “But it is an enchanted ferry, Sita, right? Because I’ve seen with mine own eyes. If it’s just normal like, it would have fallen into ruin already or weathered by time and infestation, stuff like that. But no! It was really beautiful and pristine! No broken planks or moss clinging onto the surface. This red ferry was bright crimson, right? I saw these markings painted across the body too...”  
  
Bending down to grab her pencil and sketchbook to her left, Constance flips the pages and shows the viper what she drew. “I saw it for the first time when I was fourteen, month ‘fore I finally traveled to the coast. What’s that, sugar? How far was it from where I picked you up? Hmmm…maybe a good kilometre or so.”  
  
The viper hisses again and strikes. But instead of biting the woman, it merely slithers on her shoulder so it could perch its head there in the meantime. Sita keeps flickering its tongue out.  
  
“It was so dark that night, alright,” Constance resumes as she lifts the sketchbook so that the light from outside could illuminate the page. “There was even a fog. Now I’ve never seen fog like that, looks almost unnatural-like, you know? And I says to myself, ‘how in the hell can I even see where I’m going at when this thick fucker obscures even the land I’m trekking on? Why, I still wonder to this day how I didn’t get tangled in the vines or even fell off port and some…”  
  
At times like this—when it’s only herself with Sita and the other girls—Constance doesn’t bother adapting the speech of the city folk, content instead to exaggerate the drawl of her accent, even the accompanying fillers, as she told the story from heart and memory.  
  
Meanwhile, her tarantulas remained inside their glass house. All three of them were covered in blue and black hair. They’re also currently feasting on a huge rat which Constance has slain earlier to feed them with. Vermin was plentiful in this apartment, much to her pets’ delight. Sita had consumed a dozen in the last two months. They were fat and aggressive; one even bit the woman’s ear while she slept. Fortunately, Sita has struck it seconds after it attempted to gnaw on that ear. Constance woke up that night, bleeding and very annoyed. All she could do was watch as the snake devoured the rat’s dirty wriggling body in just two large gulps. It felt like justice.  
  
“I didn’t know what to make of it as soon as it floated in sight,” she runs her fingers through the rest of Sita’s shiny body. “I knew then it had to be magic. The red didn’t look no ordinary paint job, like the color’s only there because that’s what our eyes want to see. Was I scared, you ask? Well, you know I don’t get spooked when it comes to the supernatural.”  
  
Constance tugs at the viper’s tail gently then lifts it to her mouth so she can trail small kisses on it. “Besides, humans are the real monsters. I’ve seen the kind of things they’ve done and could do so long as their greed demands it…and the worst part of it all is that they don’t even have to do these things in the dark. That’s how little they care.”  
  
She smiles in serene resignation and stares at the sketchbook now resting on her lap. “But creatures like you and me and the ferry back in the swamps—darkness may be all we know, but it’s not who we are. We can thrive in it, sure but it don’t mean we can’t bask under sunshine too.”  
  
Sita hisses as if in agreement.  
  
“I’m going to bed now, sweetheart,” she pulls the viper gingerly from around her shoulder and places it down on the floor. Without being prompted to, Sita slithers back into its hiding place. When Constance kneels to examine the big crevice that’s a foot deep, she gaps in joy at the sight of a dozen eggs nestled among rubbish that Sita no doubt collected so it could protect its young. It now drapes the rest of its body around the eggs. The woman can’t help but wonder what that must be like; to be safe in a mother’s arms.  
  
“I haven’t been around much, have I?” she reaches down to stroke her pet on the head once more, “I should have known you’ll find a way to mate! This is exciting news, Sita! I would love for our family to get bigger!”  
  
Of course she’s considered what this could mean for her tarantulas. For the most part, she kept Sita and the trio living separately by containing the arachnids in a glass which she kept locked at all times. Small holes on the lid were in place to allow them to breathe, and each time she opened it so she could feed them, Constance would at first make certain that Sita wasn’t within range.  
  
There had been a few incidents when the viper almost attacked the tarantulas, but she fortunately received the bites on the back of her hand in her effort to block each strike. That’s yet another beautiful thing about her body—she is immune to toxins including deadly venom, which was not limited to the kind snakes have.  
  
Afterwards she locked Sita in a separate glass for a whole week to chastise it. She even made the two pet sanctuaries face one another. Constance did understand that the two pets she acquired are each other’s natural prey back in the wild, but in this domesticated home she made for all of them, she preferred strongly that they don’t kill one another. Is that too much to ask? Maybe.  
  
They were the only real family she ever had. Growing up, a young Constance has chosen them over any questionable couple whom the system doesn’t always ensure is fit to adopt a child. She learned that hard truth in the most horrific way possible.  
  
“I suppose you’re going to need your own rooms,” she rises to her feet and looks back and forth between the hole on the floorboards and the tarantula sanctuary that’s perched by the fireplace. “I think you three can have the guest bedroom instead. That way when the eggs hatched, the babies can have the rest of the living room to wiggle around in, and they won’t be able to reach you guys.”  
  
Constance now approaches the arachnid trio. The slightly bigger of the three she named Princess Tutu, while the other pair who are often inseparable together are called Doraemon and Mojacko. She lifts the heavy glass container and carefully walks to the room in question.  
  
“Here we go!” she places it down on a table then swipes her palm across the dusty surface. “You’re also near the window so you can get some sun. Definitely better than staying in that shadowy spot back in the living room, no?”  
  
The arachnids’ only discernible response was the way they suddenly move to one spot of the sandy enclosure as they spread their hairy legs so they can climb one after the other across the glass, as if they want to get to Constance from where she’s watching them above. The woman first closes the door to the room before she could excitedly unlatch the lid of the sanctuary to let the three out. She spent the next few minutes afterwards just playing with them. The three took turns on her hands. Doraemon enjoys dangling from her fingers while Princess Tutu always tries to reach her chest. Mojacko is the only one who settles on her palm without doing anything.  
  
She’s so lost in her own playground with her friends that she didn’t hear someone ringing the doorbell. Even though the property no longer has electricity, Constance found some way months ago to deal with the plumbing and even have someone fix the bell so it can be used. Of course she only allowed certain trustworthy individuals in the last two years to have knowledge about this place, and one of them should be waiting at the door right now. Hurrying, Constance puts the tarantulas back in the glass then locks the guest room door.  
  
The woman then greets her visitor with a wary glance as soon as she opens the door only by a few inches. It’s her most recent ‘benefactor’, so to speak, whose card she received last week had stated ‘Todd Matthews, Ignite Records’.  
  
“Not in here. Let’s talk in the park.” And Constance grabs him by the arm and leads him to that direction.  
  
“Must you always be so gruff and mysterious, Ms. Lovelace?” he looks at her with confused amusement. He’s six feet and clean-shaven with a striking pair of blue eyes that matches hers. She only grunts in response at first until they’ve crossed over to the next street.  
  
“I told you that ‘Constant’ is fine,” she lets his arm go but continues to work forward nonetheless, “And I’m not known for my hospitality ether, so if that’s what you’re looking for then you’re better off bothering another girl.”  
  
“Well, that may be the case,” he responds with an easygoing smile, “But no other girl has the kind of talent you have, and we still think it’s the perfect fit for our brand. Especially hers.”  
  
Constance slows down her pace long enough so she can glance at him from where he’s caught up to her. Flashing him a grin, she retorts, “Is that you speaking on behalf of Ana Maria Venti herself, or are you still trying to butter me up? I mean, the fact that I agreed to this meeting means I’m all for it already. You don’t have to kiss my ass, man.”  
  
Todd laughs, “You can hardly blame me for staying impressed. Based from what I’ve heard about your demos so far, it’s so weird you yourself didn’t hire a talent manager or agency to help you get your music out there.”  
  
“Not interested in being famous,” Constance turns to another corner down the boulevard. Some of the faces of the homeless who are taking a stroll are familiar to her, and so was her face, so they gave one another a quick nod as they pass by one another. “You’ve seen how I live my life, right? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m much happier being a nobody than trying to become somebody?”  
  
He shrugs as he shoves his hands on the pockets of his jeans. “I think you know who you are regardless, and as far as eccentric people go, you aren’t the first one to choose to stay away from the spotlight at the cost of other benefits.”  
  
Constance goes quiet for a minute as she contemplates the news she’s heard or read about Ana Maria Venti during the short span of her career so far. She offers, “Your girl deserves all the credit for toughening it out just so she can keep doing what she loves, even if half the world is made up of ungrateful sons of bitches who think she’s only there to entertain them.”  
  
“Yeah,” Todd sounds almost solemn, “But an artist’s reputation is not hers to control. Only what she does with her talent.”  
  
They arrive to the park just in time as Constance is beginning to feel rather weary about the meeting. She’s sociable enough when the whims suit her; otherwise she hasn’t forgotten why she lives the way she had in the last decade. Even in this era where mutant rights are getting the coverage they deserve lately, bigots are still rampant, and she honestly doesn’t want to deal with either side of the revolution. Her best bet is to keep traveling to places she can afford to go, and meet people who don’t care about differences especially when it came to music and survival. And to pay for those trips, she needs to save up some money, and making the right connections for someone of her transient status meant selling what she’s good at. In this case, that would be her song writing. The only credit she accepts for that is monetary.  
  
Facing Todd next, she takes time to watch his face. She observes the honesty in his eyes while also blatantly ignoring the enticing scent of his cologne. They both know she’s attracted to him, but that isn’t the point of this set-up when they still have a business transaction to finalize.  
  
“You know, Constant,” Todd leans his back against the bench and regards her with another warm smile, “You’re sort of an urban legend in the industry. Did you know that? And none of the previous artists you worked with even want to cop out to the collaboration. And since you don’t even mind not being credited by name, I would have just assumed you’re just another story.”  
  
“What made you pursue me then, if you thought I was never real to begin with?”  
  
Todd chuckles as he runs his fingers through auburn locks. “I honestly still didn’t think you existed, but Ana Maria seems to think so…” he looks deeply into her eyes, “…she’s not super religious, but she has her superstitions, and one of them was to always heed her gut feeling every time she encountered a new person or event. And that included the story about you. So she demanded for me to find out more about it until I found you.” Spreading his hands, he adds, “And here we are.”  
  
Now it’s Constance’s turn to chuckle. Almost like a lady, she folds her own hands on her lap and smirks. “Actually, it was me who _found_ _you_ first. If it wasn’t for the fact that you represented such a great artist, I would have stayed hidden.”  
  
He doesn’t stop holding her gaze. “Is that the only reason?”  
  
“Yeah,” she lies easily but doesn’t avert her eyes from being captured by his. After a tense pause, she inquires, “So does she meet with me tomorrow? Because I prefer to always meet the artist first and get a better feel for how she wants me to compose music for her.”  
  
“Yup!” Todd slaps his knee then rises from the bench. He doesn’t face Constance just yet as he speaks, “We’ll make sure you’d get compensated a lot for the work you’ll be doing for us, okay? Ana Maria is very excited to meet you, Constant. And she should be…”  
  
He turns to lock gazes with her again, “…you’re well damn worth it.”  
  
The urge to take him as a lover tonight has never been as strong as it is now, but instead Constance looks shyly to the side as if she’s still some inexperienced teenage girl. Perhaps in many ways she still was. Sex was quite frightening to this day, which can’t be helped considering her earlier brushes had been without her consent. But the moon above has now graced Todd’s features with such a fierce incandescent shimmer that he looks almost like a god of old legend, and Constance is the maiden who has yet to know love and brutality.  
  
“Listen, Constant—” Todd begins, but she ends it before he could even go on as she raises a hand to halt his speech.  
  
“I need to go back,” she stands up. “And you still got a pop star to cater to in the morning.”  
  
He looks as if he wants to say something more in protest but pauses morosely as he glimpses something almost cold in Constance’s expression. It’s what she wanted for him to see, and this kind of deception has gotten easier, often necessary, to discourage anyone from getting close. Even if she gives in and welcomes this man in her arms, it won’t erase the fact that she can’t belong to anyone but herself. Todd is sweet and kind, but could he ever understand her body and the mutation in her genes? Can he appreciate the fact that her family is comprised of venomous creatures? Would he still feel the same way for her if he learns she isn’t human enough to build a life with? He deserves to be with his own kind, doesn’t he? Everyone deserves to receive a love that doesn’t compromise who you are or what you believe in.  
  
And to sleep with him tonight or any night—even invite the helpless thought that love can surely blossom between them from such closeness— would only be stepping into that familiar threshold of pain and rejection all over again.  
  
“I’ll swing by the coffee shop,” she says since Todd had mentioned the name of the place yesterday, “And I hope she’ll be there.”  
  
He’s still frowning but manages to answer, “Yeah, around nine in the morning. She’ll make it.”  
  
”Goodnight, T.”  
  
“I can walk you—”  
  
But she’s already heading out of the park by herself. The truth is that Constance is the red ferry in the story she likes telling so much; this empty vessel painted in foreign symbols, roaming the swamps alone at night. And only the light of the moon dares to know her.

## ➷

The way to Pandora is dipped in darkness where even sound didn’t seem to travel across surfaces. He’s hyperaware of the muted circumference of the place, which was why it was unnerving at first when he stepped into the vaults moments ago, until it occurs to him that his mutation’s ability to convert sounds into another form of energy applies in reverse as well. And given the amount of energy behind the uranium-encased prison awaiting him, the man has no doubt that he can use it to his advantage if the need to defend himself arises.  
  
His biochip keeps him connected to the cronies back in the archives, but each time one of them attempts to open a channel, he would impatiently shut it off. The man understands their concern, but he wasn’t Mojo’s favored one for nothing; surely he’s proven that just on the mere fact he survived genetic testing during extrapolation. What more do they want? No one’s more qualified to interact with their detained guest than him. And if the situation needs to be dealt with swiftly, he’s the only man for the job.  
  
Radiation bounces off across the walls in a rhythm more resonant than usual. Some species in Mojoworld can absorb a small amount and still go on with the rest of their lives unharmed, but with this kind of uninhibited deluge, only someone with a certain genetic advantage can withstand the corrosive effects. And even then his body has to keep counteracting the radiation before it becomes too critical.  
  
Suffice to say, the man’s working knowledge regarding his biology is more than adequate, so absorbing these lethal does is just dandy. He’s more annoyed of the insufferable miles he has to trek before reaching the main door. Halfway into it, he harnesses the radioactivity to bend against the will of his conversion powers as he claps his hands once. The sound produced reverberates as a rich deep hum instead of a swat. Between the space where his palms barely even touch, he could see a large wave expand from the motion, and with that he keeps clapping in succession until the waves start to ripple forward.  
  
These waves resonate as grumblings now, and they grow louder and louder at his command. Once the sounds ricochet across the walls of the enclosure, he then begins converting them into luminance. An array of silvery blue lights and green halos spreads throughout the vaults, emphasizing the cone-shaped structure of the Pandora itself. With hands buried in the pockets of his pants, the man casually glides through the lights as they loop over and over the walls and ceilings. The hissing, cracking, and popping of these lights are deafening, and they end up piercing through some of the layers of cobalt and steel which the vault was reinforced in.  
  
One could only imagine the extensive damage they could do on living organisms.  
  
Only the man knows, but that’s back when he was forced to engage in combat. That hasn’t happened in a while. Tragically for him since he actually likes seeing how much his powers can fuck up things. Warfare can be fun this way, but only when it serves a bigger purpose such as the expansion of Mojo’s reign, which is all he cares about.  
  
“Alright, dammit,” he utters as soon as he’s sixty feet away from the uranium door. “Let’s get this over with.”  
  
This distance is perfect. The man spreads his arms to his sides and focuses this time on harnessing the previous energies he converted moments ago from sound to lights. They still loop and crackle around the conclave though their speed has increased at this point until those silvery blue and green radiance shoot right through his body. As each light spears him, the skin flashes white and red, and the fabric of his clothes start to melt as the minute ticks by. Meanwhile, strands of his hair become almost translucent, whipping around like thick fog from something burning. The surge would wipe out the surveillance in place.  
  
The cronies and curators back in the archives will definitely scramble in panic to fix the live feed. It’s hopeless.  
  
Staring at the uranium doors, the man’s lime-green eyes become dark as the orange rings in them spin impossibly. He’s floating above ground now with his entire body engulfed in a stunning white brilliance. Streaks of red energy pulsate on his feet and hands, as if to propel him forward. And so the man races towards the doors and within a few seconds merely slips into the thick barrier with a high-voltage vibration that could destroy any material that isn’t radioactive itself. But the doors hold against his surge of power and in one incredible moment, the man appears on the other side just but he is also transformed back into his humanoid state the second he is thrust into the void of the space-time continuum. His lungs begin to constrict with the lack of oxygen. Should have anticipated that, clumsy idiot.  
  
Yes, he becomes aware that his normal form can’t survive unless he amasses nuclear energy yet again to armor himself. But as soon as he attempts it, another force hurls his body against the doors so that he’s grappled completely.  
  
He grimaces and gasps out, “Well, fuck me!” but it comes out as a pitiful garble of syllables.  
  
「Only human arrogance would motivate anyone to venture here」  
  
The voice sounds genderless, like something that could never be discerned regardless of pitch and character.  
  
And just as easily as he almost stops breathing, so is the air restored once more.  
  
He sucks through his teeth and inhales in big gulps, almost choking on the desperate action itself. That is enough to bring back clarity to his thoughts so he retorts seconds later with, “A real fucking flaw in my ancestry, I’ll give you that—” the man wills himself to a more upright position next by pushing across the force that keeps him frozen. He manages to bulge from the grip but ends up falling more deeply into the void but not until the anti-gravity takes over, and he instead floats weightlessly around the dark space.  
  
Sightless, he focuses on attuning the rest of his hypersense. He’s prepared for this all his life—because black holes scare the shit out of him, and this is the closest thing he has encountered that reminded him of one.  
  
“DNA may classify me Homo sapiens,” he continues addressing the entity whilst struggling to find balance in the fluid environment, “…but genetic improvement courtesy of my sovereign will claim otherwise. You already know that, don’t you?  
  
「You are amusing me. Perhaps I shall keep you」  
  
“Yeah? Can you suck my cock while you’re at it too?” The man makes a sweeping motion of his legs until he’s floating more vertical at last. “Because if you’re gonna lock me up in here with you, we should at least find a fun hobby to pass the time.”  
  
「Humor in the face of fear—that’s a human trait too, Simon Dove」  
  
He goes quiet. And then he inquires, “What the fuck did you just call me?”  
  
「You do not know this name, for you never became this man」  
  
“No shit!” He’s getting irritated the more he keeps conversing with this bitch of a prisoner. He’s familiar only with the fact that this mutant possesses Omega-level telepathy and perhaps a hint of clairvoyance and omnipotence. Well, la-di-da! He’s right to withhold information from Infinitesimal and Crop Sixty-Two earlier though. They may react negatively, and he’s got no time to clean up another fucking mess.  
  
「Names have power. Symbols too. Like the tattoos etched on your skin」  
  
He scoffs at that comment but can’t help but become keenly aware of the dampening quality of the ink used in said tattoos that were strategically put in around his torso and arms. Does the creature know that? Perhaps. But the man will never allow himself to be intimidated.  
  
“You don’t need to tell me anything about power,” he smiles in spite of the danger of the dire circumstances. He smiles because fear is an aphrodisiac for someone who’s always felt like an empty shell and is literally only fulfilled when radioactive atoms are integrating with his own biology, a power so raw that it tricks him into believing he was ever whole.  
  
「It’s noisy in your head, little dove. Your thoughts have wings that often get away from you, don’t they?」  
  
He stays quiet again as a way to assert his dominance.  
  
「Sorry about the mess. I was only trying to measure how far your quaint jail can contain me」  
  
The man rolls his eyes. It should be apparent that the answer to that is already self-explanatory.  
  
「I don’t talk to anyone down here. Will you talk to me? Tell me about what’s out there?」  
  
He folds his arms over his chest and says, “None of your business. You ain’t getting out of here.”  
  
「Are you sure? You sound sure」  
  
“Fuck no,” he admits, “Nothing is ever sure when the universe is predominantly working through chaotic forces. I’m not stupid to believe otherwise. But if you do manage to get out, I’m gonna fight you. I’ll fight you with every goddamn decibel I can destroy you with. And I’m not going to stop until I throw you into the nearest black hole and watch with my own eyes as you cease existing.”  
  
He says it without an inflection in his tone though the promise has gravitas nonetheless.  
  
「I don’t think so. You haven’t loved yet」  
  
He narrows his eyes at that strange conjecture. “What does that shit have anything to do with what I just said?”  
  
「Love accepts self-annihilation. Love endures long enough to destroy what tries to extinguish it」  
  
“This was going so well until you brought up such a wasteful piece of trivia.”  
  
「You will understand. Once you have loved」  
  
“Okay, cool,” he flinches in spite of himself. “But you are grossing me the fuck out.”  
  
The man realizes too late that he has betrayed himself by voicing out such a reaction over something that supposedly doesn’t affect him. But there’s a candid smugness to the other person that he thoroughly disliked upfront, and it’s made him reconsider coming down here in the first place. Mojo didn’t forbid him from interacting with the guest, but neither did he encourage anything this face-to-face to transpire. Still, since he’s already here, he might as well address the concern.  
  
“You’re not supposed to change the settings of your room.”  
  
「I was bored with the same décor. Have you never done that yourself when you want to spruce things up?」  
  
“Your stay in our facility is not voluntary,” he keeps his tone simple and straightforward, “We refer to you as ‘guest’ but you are not.”  
  
「Then why the euphemism? Why not just call me with that pet name you have in your head all the time?」  
  
The man’s frown deepens. Fucking telepaths. “Fine. Stop trying to impose control, _bitch_.”  
  
A low chuckle; the very sound grating. 「See? Doesn’t that feel good? To be so honest out in the open?」  
  
“I don’t give a shit either way.”  
  
「You’ve convinced yourself with so many lies that you don’t even see the truth looking back at you」  
  
“Sure I do. What I see is a weak, desperate lost soul who would do anything for a sliver of companionship, even if it means getting friendly with the enemy. You are all alone and one of a kind, and that is a self-exile and punishment you can no longer endure. So like an attention-starved child, you throw a tantrum fit to see who will come.”  
  
A tense pause spreads across the vacuum.  
  
“And you ended up with me. I’m no fun though, aren’t I? My thoughts are out in the open right now, and they’re nothing but hostile.”  
  
「Not all of it. And I’m sorry, but I do believe you’re projecting your issues on me」  
  
“For a mind reader, you sure don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”  
  
「Don’t I?」  
  
“If you figured out I can get lonely too and scared, I mean…” the man spreads his arms to the sides, grinning. “…that’s perfectly within the sphere of plausibility. I’m still a human being after all. And I’ve been told that you had been once too. Am I wrong?”  
  
「Very wrong. I’ve tasted human minds but no, I was never human. And you can’t say the same for yourself. This angers you. You would sooner split all the genes that make you what you deem special and what doesn’t into separate containers. Humanity is a limb you think you are better off slicing from the rest of your healthier parts」  
  
“Maybe so,” he remarks, “But I’m at least free to make that choice. And you can’t say the same for yourself. That angers you.”  
  
The voice starts to cackle. It’s an unpleasant sound that makes his skin crawl.  
  
Well, shit. He’s done engaging with this non-conversation. There’s nothing more to glean here, not even to satisfy curiosity. Instead, he opens the channel of communication at last between himself and Crop Sixty-Two back in the archives. The man may not be able to see the creature, but he could discern that their presence was everywhere in the space-time continuum. The air is teeming with the energy of their telepathic waves, though not nearly as threatening as they desire. The man has had plenty of experiences with mind readers in the past—most of them low-level captives from different planets—and so they have certain fail-safes in case of a breach. This creature was of a different shade of telepathy, of course, one whose powers can be weaponized with the right implements. For now they can only be detained in the deepest vaults, fettered to this mechanism Mojo had their best scientists invent so that the prisoner could never assimilate.  
  
It’s why the man isn’t worried he’d fall prey to their mind-controlling abilities. Picking up his stray thoughts is literally the only thing they can do. And this minimal dent in the vault’s interior they inflicted can be fixed in no time. He just had to come down here to see for himself if there was a more immediate threat. Obviously, it’s all been a grand waste of time and resources.  
  
He patches the command through, “Protocol Beta. Do you copy?”  
  
The biochip glows faintly under his skin as he hears the crony’s response, {Initiating Protocol Beta}  
  
Nothingness in the void begins to shift to their original state before the interference. The darkness dissipates to allow materials to take shape, turning a vacuum that was once fluid and weightless into a tangible world constructed by an interface that’s connected to the archives. Gravity pulls the man down to a surface and before him there are now upholstery, scattered lampshades and a table. A bookshelf is on the farther left corner while a stove and fridge took up space on the right. The room looks very cozy and normal, with each part and piece a solid thing to hold. But it’s an illusion nonetheless, a computer-generated lie, masquerading as someone’s home.  
  
“Admit it. This is an improvement from the last time, isn’t it?” The man smiles condescendingly at the guest.  
  
“And you would know something about making the cage pretty to hide the ugliness, wouldn’t you?” The creature themself has a form now too. It was a bald woman wearing beige garments; she’s barefooted and devoid of any distinct facial features, save for the fact that she could pass off as humanoid. This physical attribute is only temporary; they were still a consciousness floating in the void.  
  
At the moment he could feel them staring at his naked form, covered in tattoos—symbols they have likened to a prison of his own.  
  
The man doesn’t respond to that quip. It’s pointless anyway. Telepaths are universally known as game-playing narcissists. He couldn’t hurt them and therefore he shouldn’t give them the satisfaction into ever thinking they could hurt him.  
  
“I will remember this,” she utters next as she stands in a serene pose. Her meekness is only a mockery. Those dark eyes she possesses hold a dark promise, one that’s as lethal as the radiation surrounding this make-believe abode. He simply licks his lips whilst his gaze lingers on hers.  
  
“You really shouldn’t,” The man waves in dismissal next as the uranium door disguised through an invisible perception filter begins to vibrate behind him. He turns towards it, more than ready to slip through that portal without having to summon his radioactive armor this time.  
  
“Because, darling, I’m already forgetting you.”

## ➷

Constance arrives early and picks the more isolated corner of the café which isn’t much, considering how many people come here every day. They feel right at home no matter how little they are separated from one another inside this limited sanctuary, so long as they can still indulge in their guilty pleasure of caffeinated beverages and assorted pastry. She’s not used to this kind of impersonal closeness. When she does allow herself that opportunity, it’s often during a street performance with other twenty-something struggling artists.  
  
Dance is yet another mode of escape, but the expression feels more intimate because her body becomes the brush that moves around the canvass. People can touch her when she dances with them too, but only for a certain moment and without other expectations.  
  
There’s a group of friends across from her. Their lively chat carries towards her direction, making her smirk here and there as she picks up the momentum of their careless exchange. Constance has made friends in every state she’s stayed in, but the tricky thing about being a nomad is that she’s never stuck in a place long around to nurture those connections. New York is so lovely though, and she’s stayed here far longer than in others previously. Perhaps in time she could grow her roots here. Two years still feels too soon.  
  
She was in the middle of sipping her iced milk tea when Ana Maria Venti comes through the door, holding her phone on one hand, just above her stylish purse. Only five-foot-two, her neck and shoulders have almost disappeared in the thick gray and maroon silk scarf she had on. Her shades were too big for face, which effectively disguised it for anyone who happens to stare as she sashays towards Constance. Without another word, she slumps right next to her on the sofa, and she’s forced to move closer to the large window to her right.  
  
“So sorry!” Ana Maria hasn’t taken off her shades and instead angles her body towards Constance. A warm smile graces her glossy pink lips. “I meant to come punctually, but I got pulled into some publicity-related bullshit that I’m not going to bore you with. So!” she pats Constance on her lap once, still beaming. “Hi! I am so, _so,_ happy to finally meet you!”  
  
“The pleasure is all mine,” the other woman answers, feeling just a touch of self-conscious. Absentmindedly, her fingers brush through her hair dyed platinum blonde with a lavender pigment. It’s hard to tell if Ana Maria is watching her intently, not with those very black shades. “Todd told me you’ve been interested to work with me for a long time. I’m flattered to hear that, because I’ve followed your earlier work on Soundcloud…and even _waaay_ back at Tumblr.”  
  
“Oh god,” Ana Maria covers her mouth, “Those were the times, huh?”  
  
“You made quite the name for yourself,” Constance offers that compliment easily.  
  
“Well, not without the help of people who know how to invest so my talent yields something lucrative.”  
  
“Fuck that shit,” Constance retorts, unable to stop herself, “You’ve always written and sung your songs because you have a story to tell, and not because you’re a package that needs to be sold.”  
  
Ana Maria purses her lips. She doesn’t say anything at first and instead keeps looking at her through those shades.  
  
“Money paid for my mother’s surgery, so I can’t be too harsh about the end result.”  
  
Constance sighs as her tone softens, “I didn’t mean it like that. I simply meant that the reason I agree to take on this collaboration is because…I believe music should stand for more than just profit. Anything in the world will always have a business angle. It’s how we pay for stuff, sure. But creativity should foremost be its own master and reward. You know what I mean?”  
  
“Yeah,” Ana Maria at last takes off her shades but cautiously looks around first to make sure everyone is still engaged in their own little worlds. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, and the eyeliner drawn under them emphasized it. “I think Todd showed you a few samples of the lyrics I wrote and .mp3 files of incomplete songs. What did you think about them so far? The concept for this sophomore album is still a rough draft. But I do want it to be…more of a representation of what I’ve been through, you know?”  
  
But then the pop starlet covers her mouth again and exclaims, “Oh my goodness! I just started getting down to the thick of it, didn’t I? I haven’t even ordered my drink yet! So sorry!” Her laugh was infectious enough to make Constance grin, “Okay, let me just—”  
  
“You know what,” she interjects, “Tell me what you want, and I’ll go to the counter. I want to buy a cookie for myself anyway.”  
  
“At least let me pay for that cookie!”  
  
Constance shrugs with a rather sheepish smile as she replies, “Okay.”  
  
There’s a slight bounce to her step when she walks over to the barista next. At some point she glances towards Ana Maria and finds the girl just tinkering away on her phone, this stunning vision of patience and friendly demeanor. Constance has always trusted her gut feeling, and it’s telling her at the moment that this could indeed be the start of something wonderful.  
  
It takes her less than five minutes to order the drink and select her favorite chocolate chip cookie with almonds whose dough just falls apart in the mouth. Once she turns to approach the sofas by the large window, her smile falters at the sight of a man sitting on the same position as she did earlier. He seems to be whispering something to Ana Maria. Is it an acquaintance, maybe even someone from her agency?  
  
Constance keeps approaching while her eyes remain on the man.  
  
He almost has the same shade of dye as hers although there’s something inexplicably peculiar about the coloring somehow. His fashion sense, however, leaves something to be desired. Garbed in a pink suit jacket and pants with a bright yellow bow tie, he also decided to top these off with a black fur coat and leather white gloves. Somehow, in spite of what a goddamn mistake these clashing choices are together, he still carries them with a sense of mystery, even prestige. He certainly knows how to leave an unforgettable impression.  
  
It’s after she has stopped right in front of them to face the table, that she asks Ana Maria, “Hi. Is he supposed to be here with us?”  
  
And the other woman looks at her with what can only be described as doe-eyed shock. The cordial and playful demeanor from five minutes ago is just gone, almost as if the mere presence of this stranger is sucking the life force out of her.  
  
“Why don’t you take a seat?” The man barely smiles but his eyes sparkle with a suspicious sort of delight. “There’s a stool behind you.”  
  
“Actually,” Constance counters whilst holding onto the cup and cookie with a firmer grip, “You’re in my spot.”  
  
An intense silence passes between herself and the man as they stare at one another without blinking or attempting to look away. The curve that appears on his lips finally does resemble a smile, but in return a harsh look dawns in his amber eyes. It makes him less friendly now.  
  
His eyes are another curious feature. From the angle where she’s looking at them, the brown tint looks almost tangerine. That can’t be right. A trick of light maybe? Whatever this is, Constance is on high alert and she needs to play this exchange smart so as not to rouse any unwanted attention, though she doubts that this is only a matter of a simple misunderstanding.  
  
The man turns his face towards Ana Maria who is still stunned into silence. But as soon as they lock gazes, she clears her throat and nervously replies to Constance, “Um, just get another chair, please. He’s, uh, he’s my—”  
  
“We were in choir together back in high school,” he finishes on her behalf as he stretches his arms to rest on the sofa’s ledge. Constance notices Ana Maria visibly flinch as his fingers curl on her shoulder blade to pull her closer to him. Her own arms fold over her chest whilst she forces a smile. It looks more like a wince. She can’t even look at the other woman.  
  
“That’s bullshit,” Constance leans on the table as she places down the items she’d been carrying. “Who the fuck are you, really?”  
  
“Nobody,” he murmurs as he leans forward too, “…you want on your ass, so I suggest you listen to our mutual friend and take that seat now.”  
  
“And if I don’t?”  
  
“Please,” Ana Maria at last meets her gaze with a stern yet frightened look, “Do what he says.”  
  
Constance is not having any of it. She’s already made up of her mind to alert anyone nearby when Ana Maria grabs her by the wrist all of a sudden. Her nails dig into the skin. Beseeching, she whispers, “Please. My mom.”  
  
The realization of what is happening here hits her like a bathtub of ice.  
  
“Is this a chocolate chip cookie?” The man casually swipes the baked good from her other hand. He stares intently at it as if he’s never seen one before in his life. He makes a disgusted noise and then dumps it inside Constance’s unfinished milk tea which she’s left on the table.  
  
She stays frozen in place. Everything about this man is decisively cruel, and she could just sense that whatever he’s done to the other woman’s mother—or rather what he might do if either of them disobeyed—would be fatal.  
  
“So listen,” he then takes Ana Maria’s latte, opens the lid, and takes a rather long gulp of the liquid. “Here’s what we’re going to do in the next minute, girls. We are going to leave together as peacefully as we can, and then I’m taking Miss Venti for a nice trip to a new metropolis…” he pauses to shake the cup. “This shit is gross, by the way.”  
  
Putting down the cup, he leans with his elbows on the table and looks deeply into Constance’s eyes. “But before that, you will have to promise me that you won’t try and save our little pop star here, because even the Avengers fuck up. And they’re supposed to be the heroes of your planet, right? So what makes you any more qualified to fight if your own role models, well, _suck_?”  
  
She blinks furiously at the man. Avengers? ‘Planet’?  
  
As she stares back into his hypnotic eyes, it occurs to her that they weren’t normal for a reason. He’s not even human.  
  
“Wow,” he grabs Ana Maria’s hand and pulls her to her feet. “You’re a quick study. Here’s another concept I want you to wrap your pretty little head around—” he crosses over the table and imposes his height against her form, so that she’s forced to look up while he leans and whispers, “…if you even attempt to scream for help when we get outside, I will end you. Not kill you. _Zap_ you out of your pitiful short shelf-life of an existence. Got it?” His eyes, she observes, are actually green but the other colors in them only reinforce the reality that _he isn’t fucking human._  
  
He returns her intense scrutiny with a cocky smile. “Oh, I know,” he comments, “I’m very handsome. Please don’t drool.”  
  
His free hand grazes under her chin. That shakes her back to action. And Constance slaps him.  
  
The guard sees this in time and starts heading towards them. “Is there a problem here?”  
  
It was Anna Maria who pushes forward and says, “No, not at all. My friends just got into a heated argument. Sorry!”  
  
“Well, take it outside, miss.”  
  
“Yes,” the alien…person once again holds onto the woman’s hand, “We’re actually leaving.”  
  
Constance could only watch in horror at first as Ana Maria is being taken away, completely powerless to stop any of this. It was only after said woman risks a glance back at her with that devastatingly frightened look that she is forced to follow them out of the door and into the bright clearing of the streets. Constance doesn’t have to know Ana Maria Venti that well in order to feel this overpowering need to get her out of this mess. If something terrible happens, she might not even get a chance and instead would end up mourning a stranger she wished she has done something noble for. So fuck what that guy said. Fuck it if he’s an alien.  
  
Constance Lovelace has fought for herself all her life.  
  
And she’s not afraid to do it for somebody else’s sake now too.  
  
Without a moment’s hesitation, she runs after the pair just as the man drags Ana Maria to a deserted alleyway down the next street. The calm and deliberate way he holds onto her hand like that is impossibly ugly, almost as if he’s done this many times before. That did not sit well with Constance at all. He needs to be stopped. She doesn’t have to be a goddamn Avenger for that.  
  
“Hey, shithead!” she keeps running forward and doesn’t stop momentum until she collides against him, forcing him to let go of Anna Maria with the sheer force of her weight. Constance has also grabbed the unfinished hot latte earlier, and she threw its content at the man’s face next. By this point, too, her body has adapted a more resilient exterior. Her layers of clothing are torn into shreds the second her skin and muscle hardened into protruding spikes, which cover her now from head to foot, including her face.  
  
Ana Maria lets out a shrill scream and begins running away from both of them. Meanwhile, Constance places herself as a barricade so that the bastard couldn’t get to the other woman. Her hair grows longer without warning, as the tenacity of each strand becomes stronger so that when she grabs a fistful of them to throw his way, she ends up choking him in place to subdue any attempts of his to counter attack.  
  
He collapses to his knees, giggling breathlessly as he gasps out, “Impressive—! But not—! Quite—!”  
  
And then he whips something from his hand. The damn thing makes contact with her throat, throwing her down the ground.  
  
Suddenly, her body shifts back to normal. The spikes just disappear. Her hair releases the man and slithers back to her scalp. Constance starts scratching at the thing wrapped around her neck. It seems like some type of collar made of metal. _Did it shut down her powers?_ Panicking, she claws at the leash. She’s so consumed trying to tear it off that she doesn’t notice that he has approached. He glares down and before he can do something else, Ana Maria has come back and dove towards him. They fall together on the ground.  
  
“Save yourself!” she shouts at Constance. “I’m the one he wants! And my mother is still—”  
  
“You fucking bitches!”  
  
The man waves at the air and suddenly a hole opens in the fabric of reality. He grabs Ana Maria and—with a terrifying force—hurls her up the sky where the portal quickly absorbs her, silencing whatever scream that would have happened. Constance springs into action and goes for that hole, but the man tackles her from behind and clutches her wrists to keep her from turning around.  
  
“She’s right about one thing,” he murmurs into the shell of her ear as she struggles to get the fuck away from his iron grasp. “She was ultimately the prize, but who am I to turn down a consolation, especially if it’s another mutant?”  
  
And he jumps as the mere upward motion is enough to propel them towards that passage to somewhere Constance can only guess is evil.

## ➷

The stupid mutant bitch is still resisting even after they reached the space pod that’s traveling light years away from Earth. Utterly powerless at the moment (since that the gene dampener has been latched around her throat), the woman still believes she has a fighting chance. He would have admired her spunk, if he wasn’t so annoyed with how poorly the extraction went down. The bitch keeps flailing and kicking at the ground beneath her while the man forcibly drags her across the docking area where Lonesome and Orphan are already waiting.  
  
Loud bass from techno music is playing in the background as multi-colored lights are splashed across the conclave.  
  
“Whoa!” Orphan steps forward. With blue eyes slathered in eyeliner and gold glitter, he puts his hands up as if trying to restrain a spooked horse, “You caught a very wild one this time, didn’t you, bro?”  
  
The other taller man—a gangly figure with spiky dirty blond hair—stays on his spot, wearing a friendly smile that’s quite dissonant from all this commotion. He calls out to their friend, “Guess we can now confirm that any successful extraction should always come as a team of three.” He jabs a finger into the air. “And it’s for this very reason.”  
  
“Piss off, would you, Lonesome?”  
  
The man at last lets the girl go by slamming her down the gurney while his two companions quickly begin to lock her in place by turning on the laser restraints. The red energies loop around her body, acting as paralytic elements which successfully prevent any movement.  
  
Orphan rubs his aquiline nose as he gazes adoringly at their prisoner. “Aww, she’s rather pretty—” he then mutters under his breath, “—you know, for an earthling…” He winks at the girl, still behaving in an unnervingly cheery way. “Shame about that snarling mouth though. Maybe I can try making you laugh, honey? I am _very_ hilarious.”  
  
“I don’t think she’s in the mood for comedy right now, Ori,” Lonesome looks over at the monitor to observe her vital signs. “From the looks of it, she’s still got it out for Nobody. Look at these readings…”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Orphan also turns to the monitors now. “Increased heart rate, a massive spike in adrenaline. Hell, if it was under any other circumstances, I’d guess she’s horny and wants to fuck him.”  
  
Lonesome snickers. “That’s quite a cavalier way of interpreting things.”  
  
“Who the fuck are you people?” the girl on the gurney demands. “And where the hell are we?”  
  
The man called ‘Nobody’ shoots a glare at her direction. He’s currently stripping down from his fabulous ensemble which she ruined with the coffee from earlier. He doesn’t reply until he’s walking towards her wearing only his pink pants and dark fur boots, as his tattooed skin glistening with something that’s not entirely sweat.  
  
Staring coldly into her eyes, he lays down the hard truth: “Hey, how about we save the introductions and you just come to terms with the fact that you are never seeing your planet again or the people back there you might have loved and cared about? It’s the most productive thing to do, which starts by shutting that tramp mouth of yours.”  
  
“Mean and pretty,” Orphan retorts, “That’s our Nobody.”  
  
“And you!” Nobody snaps his head towards Orphan. “Why didn’t you interrupt that confrontation before it got worse?”  
  
“Who, me?” Orphan comically looks behind him before feigning hurt as he replies, “Why, didn’t our great and noble vassal just claim he can handle the mission all by himself? Didn’t he say that, Lon?”  
  
“He said, and I quote, ‘I don’t need you fuckers cramping my style again’, so yes.”  
  
Nobody glares back and forth at his friends. Orphan keeps up that same goofy smile on his face while Lonesome is too busy managing the console overall. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he just goes, “Whatever. Now where’s the Venti girl?”  
  
At the mere mention of that name, the mutie girl pipes up once more. “If you hurt her, I swear to god!”  
  
“Or what?” Nobody stalks back to the gurney and slips his hand past the laser restraints so he can wrap his fingers around her neck. If it wasn’t for the collar, he would have started choking her already. “What exactly can a mutant earthling who can’t access her powers do? Absolutely fuck-all, that’s what. And instead of worrying about that girl, you should look out after yourself first. Because Venti is going to be just fine. She’s going to receive all the luxury you can think of, far better than what she had it back in your shitty planet.”  
  
“Unless!” Orphan interrupts. “You have some kind of talent we can use? Do you sing? Dance? Act?”  
  
“Silence, Ori!” Nobody chastises.  
  
“ _Silence_?” Orphan snorts. “Since when do you talk to me like that?”  
  
Grunting, Nobody glances over his shoulder, “Dude, can you just…?”  
  
“Okay, lord vassal, sir,” Orphan replies haughtily while Lonesome bites back a laugh.  
  
“Anyway!” Nobody resumes pointedly, “She’s having none of that treatment. In fact, I think I’m just going to send her straight to the archives to be processed and filed. Let the curators decide what means of utility she can serve in Mojoworld.”  
  
Gradually, his hand on the girl’s neck lowers so he can trace the holes on her clothes that had been punctured when she transformed earlier. It was almost lascivious, the way he caresses the rest of her body while watching her expression. However, it was devoid of any real exploitative intent. Nobody hardly ever feels attracted to anyone—regardless of gender and species—especially if he perceives them inferior, so sex was just another function he indulges in when there’s nothing else to pass the time with. He does, however, savor how his suggestive action makes her cringe. He specifically did it to remind her he can do more horrible things to her person if she keeps asking questions and playing hero. Afterwards he pulls away and turns his back so he can deal with the Venti girl next.  
  
“Nobie,” Lonesome calls out to him halfway, “You’re bleeding…” then he points at the side of Nobody’s hip.  
  
“Shit, I didn’t notice that.” _Wait, does that mean?_  
  
He rushes to a spot so he could fish through his discarded clothes, “Oh, fuck! She tore through the fabric!”  
  
Orphan is equally horrified. “The fucking disrespect, bro!”  
  
Lonesome glances at the girl in the gurney so he could shake his head at her in disappointment.  
  
“You’re all insane!” she shouts as she tries to move a muscle but couldn’t. Sweat is pouring down her face by now.  
  
Calmly, Lonesome disarms the laser restraints, releasing her in an instant. He then proposes next, “Since you need to make up for the assault and battery, how about you win his favour by being a good little nurse and clean the wound you inflicted on our vassal? You get free bathroom privileges and such if you played nice.”  
  
“Ooh!” Orphan claps his hands together. “Let me fetch the kit!”  
  
“What?” Nobody glares at all of them. “Like hell she will! She ain’t getting near me after what she did to my coat!”  
  
“Are you all high or something?!” the mutie girl tears herself off from the gurney as she scratches desperately against the gene dampener around her neck, “How could any of you act and talk in such a jolly manner as if you didn’t just abduct two girls and bring them in—wherever the fuck we’re supposed to be—”  
  
“Benhazin System, since we have to fetch vibranium, but we’ll be in Mojo soon,” Lonesome interjects in the same unaffected tone.  
  
“I don’t know what any of that means!”  
  
Orphan returns with the med kit. “Don’t think about it too much. It’ll all make sense in due time. Here…”  
  
“I am not doing shit with that!” The girl takes a step back.  
  
Nobody strides forward and grabs the med kit for himself. He pauses to stare at the girl before he’s grabbing her wrist next to drag her towards another gurney. He ignores her protest and only lets go once he’s settled down on that gurney in question. Scoffing, he unlocks the capsule and points at the various apparatus inside.  
  
“That one resembles the syringes in your planet,” he instructs her. “You administer that on my wound. Shouldn’t be too difficult to do.”  
  
The girl is fast enough to grab it and quip, “Oh, with pleasure!”  
  
And then she stabs him right on the chest. Growling, Nobody slaps her hard across the cheek and she collapses to the floor. He then pulls out the apparatus from where it’s embedded on the skin. He’s highly tempted to start beating her with it whilst he watches her furiously. The only reason he doesn’t is because it would be a waste of medicinal dosage. He might just break the entire thing on her face.  
  
“Oh, Nobie!~” Orphan starts singing, “I think she likes you!~”  
  
Nobody ignores him and grabs the girl by the ankle next so he can drag her that way from now on.  
  
“Where are you taking me!” she digs her nails across the metal floor. The man says nothing as he drags her through the private barracks. On the way there, they pass by the cell where the Venti girl was held captive. She’s unconscious at the moment, with her body pressed against a gurney that’s floating vertically across the glass concealment. She’s also surrounded by laser restraints.  
  
“Ana Maria!” the mutie girl shouts but to no avail. Nobody stops dragging her once they reach his chambers.  
  
He puts down her leg and grabs her by the elbows next so he can lift the girl to her feet. She resists, of course, but he decides to threaten her then by saying, “If you really cared about your friend, then you will take into account that I also have her mother. Any other rash destructive action on your part will definitely cost that poor old woman’s life. Will you be so selfish to risk that?”  
  
They keep staring at each for the longest time, with neither willing to back down. He supposed her level of ferociousness is exciting; most of the captives barely put up a fight, far too overwhelmed by fear and panic. But this girl doesn’t seem to value self-preservation as much, or at least would rather die doing something to save somebody else’s life instead. Against his own judgment, Nobody remarks, “You are very brave. But the only way you can make this easy on yourself and Venti’s mother is if you cooperate. This is a one-time offer. I could just throw you out there in the void, but you may have some use yet, especially with a mutation like that.”  
  
She holds her breath for a while before acquiescing by responding, “If I do that, will you let the woman go?”  
  
“You don’t have any leverage to make a negotiation like that,” he says now in a surprisingly gentle tone, “Besides, that’s up to Ana Maria back there. And based from my experiences, you earthlings put so much emphasis on biological ties that you would do everything to keep family safe. So the decision shouldn’t be too complicated for our mutual friend, don’t you think?”  
  
The girl merely watches him and doesn’t try to push him away anymore as he holds her arms in place. She probably realizes that she truly is no match against forces beyond her wildest dreams. He’s almost disappointed, if it wasn’t for that discernible fire behind her gaze that still lingers. That holds a promise that he still hasn’t killed her spirit.  
  
There was something about this girl he decides he can enjoy in the meantime before he inevitably drops her off to the archives.  
  
And so Nobody inquires next, “What do I call you?”  
  
She frowns but answers anyway: “Constance Lovelace.”  
  
“Sounds made-up,” he lets out a chortle and fondles her hair next, easing the digits through the tangled mess.  
  
But she springs to life and shoves him off while taking a few steps back.  
  
“And what about you, dipshit?” she shoots back. “Why do they keep calling you ‘nobody’?”  
  
“Because that is who I am,” he starts massaging the spot on his chest where she had stabbed him in. “My name is Nobody.”  
  
And then he begins to sing it, “♪ mч nαmє ís nσвσdч, mч prídє ís mч pσrnσgrαphч ♬”  
  
The Lovelace girl says nothing, but he could tell that she’s intrigued. Afterwards, he nods at the state of her tattered clothes and offers, “Come on, little girl. Let’s get you into something less shabby. I also forgive you for ruining my favorite coat. But you gotta promise not to turn into that shit again—oh wait, you actually can’t because…” and he mockingly taps the side of his own exposed neck, chuckling.  
  
“Fuck you,” she mutters whilst she tries pulling at the gene dampener again.  
  
“Oh, I could…” he steps forward slowly, measuring his words, “…but I’d rather we get to know each other first.”  
  
Scowling, Lovelace throws a punch at him but he catches her fist. She tries to pull her arm away next yet he doesn’t relent. He instead closes the gap between them. The effect is instant, something he’s picked up on from the moment they locked eyes across the café a while back.  
  
“I can actually hear your heartbeat, you know. It’s the most honest way a body can communicate, lacking the pretense of speech,” he remarks, lowering his tone the entire time, “One of my many talents as a mutant is detecting it.”  
  
“You’re…also a mutant?”  
  
_And human_ , he leaves that unspoken _, I could have been an earthling_.  
  
“Your heartbeat, coupled with how your pupils are dilated right now, spells out that you’re attracted to me.”  
  
Lovelace finally pulls her arm away (but only because he’s let it go). “Or maybe I’m just overcome with murderous rage.”  
  
“Or,” he smiles, “Maybe it’s both.”  
  
The girl looks like she’s ready to hit him back with another scathing response when Lonesome’s voice booms across the intercom. “Ori and I are leaving to fetch the wares. You and your little girlfriend gonna be okay, or should I hide the other sharp objects?”  
  
An idea occurs to Nobody and he voices it, “You know, I think we’re coming with you.”  
  
Orphan pipes up. “Wait, you’re taking her out of there already? We haven’t landed in Mojo yet.”  
  
Even Lovelace is just as confused and quite terrified with what he has in store, and rightfully so.  
  
Nobody nods sagely and answers, “I think it’s time she learns that—what was that human expression again—ah, that’s right…” he lifts her face by tucking a hand under her chin. “…she’s really not in Kansas anymore.”

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@FATHEROFFXCKERS](https://twitter.com/fatheroffxckers) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｃｏｎｓｔａｎｃｅ Ｌｏｖｅｌａｃｅ

**ﾒ**

* * *

##  **Ｐｒｏｌｏｇｕｅ  
**

##  **༻✧**

  
Constance could prepare for almost anything except for an alien abduction. She supposed it was her goddamn fault then, to overlook such an essential adversity in life—except it wasn’t, because who fucking gets kidnapped by something she never once entertained was a possibility? Plausible deniability was hardly going to be a good excuse though, since her life was not the only one at stake here.  
  
She’s gotten this far because she always prioritized her survival before anyone else’s. This was different. Ana Maria Venti didn’t deserve what was happening to her, and since Constance was here even if she hadn’t been the target to begin with, she might as well do whatever it takes to ensure the other woman wouldn’t fall in harm’s way again. That means she needed to outmaneuver this ‘Nobody’ guy somehow, since he seems to be the leader of the trio. What would that entail? Earn his trust, most likely. But how? And even if she’s successful, would that guarantee her and Ana Maria’s safe return to Earth?  
  
The conclave where she was put in looks rusted, as if time had corroded it for a few millennia. However, when she touched the surface—expecting it to burn—she’s shocked to find it had no discernible temperature whatsoever (much like her body’s own, which she can command at will). A more conscientious inspection revealed next that the grime and rust that coated the walls were not even authentic. The surface was too glossy for that. Constance even put her face close to a wall for a sniff. Too clean, almost like every inch of the place had been disinfected. And was that a hint of lemon in there? It doesn’t make sense. What the fuck is this so-called space ship?  
  
“It’s retro,” the man called ‘Lonesome’ (or Lon, apparently) shoots her a bemused look as he glides towards her. He was the tallest of the trio, with elongated pale limbs although his forearms have quite the muscle definition too. “We can change the setting if you don’t dig the look, but I like what we have on right now.”  
  
Placing his hands over his hips, he twirls once and appraises the dingy little set-up they’re standing on, like he’s proud of it, before remarking, “It’s got a grunge vibe to it, you feel?”  
  
“Are you…” Constance measures her next words as she skulks there on a corner since she wants to keep enough distance between herself and the men, “…human beings too? Because you look and talk like you are. How come we are speaking in the same language?”  
  
Lonesome shrugs. “Maybe? Like, somewhere down the hereditary line, I may have genes that are shared with your Earthling kind. Big universe, lots of interspecies sex going on. But if you want someone with a more direct lineage to your race, that would be our Great Vassal there. But I bet he told you that already—in that cute, angry denial thing he does.”  
  
He nods at a direction which Constance couldn’t see clearly from where she’s huddled. Afterwards he flashes an uncomfortably friendly smile, adding, “Mixed races are common in Mojoworld. Many galaxies and star systems have mingled already, see, including with your home planet. Don’t really get why your governments were still adamant to keep it a secret from your average citizen. Imagine: your kind and many others doing intergalactic trade…wouldn’t that be something?”  
  
He’s suddenly close and nudging her on the arm like they’re just normal acquaintances having gossip. Constance is tempted to swat that hand away, but she senses that Lonesome is actually genuine in his cordiality. That’s what makes him even more frightening. He’s too ‘chill’ over the abduction thing. What an asshole.  
  
“I am starting to get sick of the grunge scene, man!” Orphan walks in. Her eyes go wide when she sees that he’s put on something bulky and made of metal. A space suit then? God, there is so much stressful stimuli here that she’s afraid her brain might just shut down.  
  
“You wanna do the floral princess theme?” Lonesome offers as he opens his palm and a hologram of some kind pops up. Constance stares at it suspiciously as he crooks his thumb once. The entire look of the conclave shifts in an instant. Everything is pink with flowers of different colors splattered on the surfaces. She gasps and ends up jerking away from the wall she had leaned on earlier. Ultimately she felt foolish for finding floral wallpaper threatening to begin with.  
  
“Yeah,” Orphan nods, “This is brighter. Prettier. More my speed.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s certainly easier on the eyes,” Lonesome concurs as he presses a button on a corner next, then an entire new platform rises from below. He wheels out the same space suit that Orphan is dressed in and waves for Constance to come closer. Against her instincts, she finds herself approaching, with one small step at a time.  
  
Lonesome seems to expect her reactions and so explains in a rather reassuring manner, “Since you’re coming with, you need to be well-protected from the elements. You’re sort of a…low-level biped, I guess, from a galaxy that, well, isn’t nearly as accustomed to traveling across other star systems so…”  
  
“She’s Earthling,” Orphan looks over at Constance using a tone she can’t help but think reeks of condescension and pity. “Homo sapiens race. Nothing interesting. Except for the population with the mutant gene, like Nobie over there. So yeah, she better get suited up since her biology is too primitive to combat anything. Personally…”  
  
The ever-smiling man approaches this time, as he looks her up and down a few times before jutting out his chin so he could rub it thoughtfully, saying, “…I think Earthlings are ideal for domestication, but all this red tape when it comes to getting a license approved so you can get one is a pain in the ass. But you, my darling—” he then uses the same hand to touch the tip of her nose with his forefinger, “—I can see myself owning. Oh, what a wonderful pet you’d make! Who’s a good girl, hmm?”  
  
This time she swats his hand when he tries to scratch her behind the ear. “Fuck you, motherfucker! I won’t be anybody’s bitch!”  
  
“I think Nob pegged her for a mutant though, hence why she needs to be collared,” Lonesome interjects helpfully and asks Constance next to climb into the suit he just finished programming to open for her.  
  
She warily regards the thing, approximating that it’s at least seven feet high. Left with no choice, she gets in and once more gasps when the entire things shrinks within seconds and molds itself to fit across her body. She pats herself down in haste as her mind tries its best to adjust to the freaky reality of her situation. Regaining her composure soon enough, she decides to jump on her position a few times to test her center of gravity. The suit barely weighs anything, but it’s too snug, making her self-conscious about her body in ways she hated.  
  
It’s wiser not to fight this since Nobody has made up his mind on bringing her along for their expedition. Somehow she feels that getting locked up with Ana Maria was still the better option. Who knows what’s out there? More aliens, probably. Would they still resemble anything ‘humanoid’ too, much like these three?  
  
“This shit is really trippy,” she mutters under her breath and lifts one arm so she can touch it. The material that engulfed her feels silicone-based but also undeniably metal. The paradox scares the shit out of her but also intrigues. Fuck, this is really happening. She’s in a science fiction world, as if having inhuman abilities wasn’t enough trouble.  
  
Orphan grins some more. “Look at the baby learning how to wear her gear for the first time. Here you go…” he takes out what she assumes is food. It looks edible, which is why she dips her head to his palm so she can snatch it between her teeth. She chews it hurriedly before hurling the remnants onto his face. Curse the collar that dampens her shit though—she could have easily turned her spit to acid by now.  
  
“Oh my god!” Orphan only coos as he brushes the flakes off his skin. “Please, please, _please_ let’s keep her!  
  
Lonesome laughs, still as super chill as he could be. Constance appraises him; he looks human in appearance, or at least at first glance. Standing this close reveals he has some bizarre facial features, however, particularly the jaw line. Its bony contours almost protrude like they’re ready to pop out if he wills it so. She couldn’t be sure but she also notices that his neck bends farther than what she knows normal people can do every time he cranes it to the side. The skin folds around his throat are stretchable in the most disconcerting way.  
  
He must have sensed her staring because he smiles more enigmatically and says, “There’s plenty of time for your questions. I wouldn’t mind if you want to get to know each other, but we’re still under a strict schedule here. And the trouble you got our vassal into during extraction ate up too much time already. So…” he slaps the frontal area of her whose impact she resisted, “…let’s get a move on.”  
  
“Don’t treat her as if it matters whether she lives or dies. She ain’t shit.”  
  
Nobody appears out of the corner of her eye, making Constance flinch. It’s second nature at this point, a reaction compelled by the mere sound of his voice. She is beginning to despise him every time their gazes locked, much like now. Here he is, the nuisance responsible for the misery she’s stewing in.  
  
“Something’s missing,” he waves at the pink abomination that was the floral princess theme. With a snap of his fingers, disco lights start descending around them. Right, because in addition to being a freak of nature who seizes women for his own gain, he also apparently revels in seventies queer fashion literally no one wanted for him to emulate.  
  
Thankfully, the man isn’t dressed like a white-trash pimp of an era forgotten anymore and is instead geared up in the same suit as the rest. But while the three suits have a navy blue shade, his is coated with a crimson sheen. Constance allows her eyes to linger on him as her heart hardens. He’s not as weirdly muscular and lanky at the same time like Lonesome or somewhat rotund like Orphan. His build is just in the middle, nothing striking, save for the way he held himself when he walked and moved. Self-entitlement and an overblown ego have that effect, she supposed.  
  
Even if there is a barrier between them because of the suits, she still scoots away from his reach. He notices it, given how haughty he smirks at her, saying, “You spook too easily. That’s a big no-no around these parts. I think she requires the helmet too. What do you think, Ori?”  
  
“Really? We gonna cover up snookie ookum’s pretty face?” Orphan quips, grinning maniacally the entire time. “I mean, she could have a floatie like us—” and he lifts a translucent globe that’s akin to an oversized fish bowl. “Much easier to breathe in too. Or maybe you just don’t want to have to look at her because you might fall in love~” he then makes a kissy face at Nobody.  
  
Said man tries to knee him on the groin but misses. “I will not have her spotted by poachers. Best we limit any kind of sighting as she travels with us.”  
  
“If you’re so concerned with liability,” Lonesome offers, “Then don’t bring her.”  
  
“Also,” Orphan butts in, “Covering her up would call more attention to the fact she’s different.”  
  
“I want to bring her, alright?” Nobody’s tone was soft but stern, “’Cos we gotta keep an eye on this feisty little bitch. Who knows what she’d do if we leave her with the rest of the equipment? And a helmet is standard for a nova suit anyway. Floaties were always optional.”  
  
“Like she can even operate this ship,” Orphan snorts back a laugh. “Admit it, _Nobs_ , you just don’t wanna end up staring into her eyes and falling in love~”  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you today, you stupid shit?” The vassal snaps, “That kind of talk is disgusting, and I’m pretty sure sanctioned as illegal in our turf. And if it isn’t, then I should submit the law myself.”  
  
“It’s perfectly organic,” Orphan shoots back, all casual smile and half-serious intent, “You’re of the same species anyway. Might be nice to get another mutie progeny of the homo sapiens breed. We can sell them. I know some interested folks.”  
  
Nobody’s expression darkens. Those eyes with their infernal hue seem glow menacingly as he glares. “I am not siring any brat unless Mojo asks it of me, because what is mine is his. _Always_. And do you really think I would dirty my gene pool with this…” and he gestures at Constance, “… _mongrel_? Besides, her mutation is obviously inferior compared to mine, since I do have the distinction of Omega class, let’s not forget.”  
  
Orphan scoffs, “Man, you’re so hard to please. Any matchmaker would find you a hopeless case.”  
  
“Good,” Nobody grits his teeth as he fiddles a pendant around his neck. He looks really offended about this conversation, which makes Constance just as livid too. She can’t believe these assholes are talking about her worth as a depository of sperm like she’s not even there!  
  
“Come on,” Lonesome interjects as he gets between his friends. He seems to have picked up on her animosity too since his eyes rests upon her as he speaks, “We really need to get a move-on. The other party insists on punctuality if they are to keep doing business with us.”  
  
“Tell that to this clown,” Nobody raises a middle finger at Orphan, who tries to lick said digit before the vassal then clenches that same hand into a fist and punches him square on the jaw. Orphan just guffaws, spitting some blood to the inside. Afterwards he exaggeratedly stumbles around the space as if to prove he truly was a comedian.  
  
“Ori,” Lonesome glances at his companion with a disappointed sigh, “Stop fucking around and open the main gate, would you?”  
  
“You guys go ahead first,” Nobody patted his comrade’s shoulder, “I have to talk to our prisoner for a bit. Make sure you stay on the course, and don’t let Ori taunt you into taking one of his shortcuts this time.”  
  
“Yeah, man,” Lonesome grins and presses his forehead against the other man’s in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection that makes Constance narrow her eyes. “But you know Ori.”  
  
“Some days I wish I didn’t.”  
  
“I heard that!” Orphan calls out from somewhere. “And I hope you’re happy about hurting my feelings just now!” He doesn’t sound so broken up about it though.  
  
She watches their interactions in utter silence, conscious of the fluidity of the exchange including certain existing tensions she may be able to exploit if she ever gets separated with one of them later on. It’s something she’s learned over the years because transient life often makes her cross paths with bad men. This lot may be alien, but she believes males of any species will always be power-hungry and oppressive. She’s been checking the same boxes with them so far. Informed by this prejudice, she thinks on a short-term plan next.  
  
The easiest thing she picked up on is that Nobody addressed the two men under his command quite differently, yet there was a persistent bond among them nonetheless. Constance could sense that they all must have grown up together somehow. There’s ease and camaraderie here that seemed almost filial in nature. Did that humanize her to them? Maybe.  
  
It still doesn’t change the fact they take women away from everything they’ve loved and ever known.  
  
Once it was just Nobody and her again, she would have recoiled from where she stands until she makes up her mind right then not to allow him to intimidate her for as long as she had to be kept captive.  
  
“Comfortable?” He watches her with those freakish eyes again.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good,” he chuckles, “And it’s about to get worse for you, unless you do everything I say. Now put this shit on…”  
  
He lifts a helmet, just as he indicated earlier, though the tinted glass is quite black that she doubts she’d be able to see. Expecting that concern, Nobody remarks, “It’s an interface. As soon as you slip this in your head, a monitor will flash and help you navigate your surroundings. There are meters in the screen that even tell you something about the atmosphere and ecosystem of a planet.”  
  
The vassal smirks again and adds, “I believe that Avenger you call Iron Man has almost the same program. You know about Earth’s mightiest heroes, right? I heard they’re on trial for some misdeeds though, committed by a few of their own. But what do I know about boring Earth politics?”  
  
He unceremoniously pushes the helmet over her face without giving her any time to prepare herself. Her hands start clutching in an attempt to take it off but she fails.  
  
“Our work in Mojoworld is far more important than the petty squabbles of mortals who fancy themselves divine just because they got an Asgardian advocating for them,” he laughs, “What a fucking farce.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have an opinion about things you claim not to care about then,” Constance lowers her hands and calls him out using the calmest of tones, “Because not only do you sound like a petulant pretender but you’re also quick to disguise your ignorance as forward thinking. Nothing could be more _human_ than that, by the way.”  
  
She wills herself to embrace the foreign vessel she’s been tucked inside, knowing that though they may chain her body, her soul can still be reclaimed by the freedom of her mind. Besides, this suit was designed for protection and the helmet for navigation. They’re much like the technology back home, and she refuses to believe that what her race has to offer is as primitive as these jerkwads had claimed. Mutant or not, she’s proud to be human first and foremost. It’s that humanity that has kept her alive and hoping, and now more than ever she needs to hold onto it if she is to prevail over this threat to her agency.  
  
Nobody is just watching her without saying another word. Above them, the disco lights cascade on his face, blinking spots of colors that do nothing to soften the harsh edges at all. His silence at the moment feels as hollow as his insights had been earlier. Through the lenses of the helmet, Constance watches the screen assess his person based on factual characteristics regarding height, weight, Mojoworld origin, status as vassal, and something he mentioned earlier as ‘omega class mutant’ which the monitor further describes as ‘specializing in energy conversion’. Vague, ominous, and quite unhelpful for her.  
  
She also notices the pattern of his heartbeat which spiked a bit while he’s talking shit about Earth, but now it has slowed down, almost as if he’s commanding it to become inconspicuous. So he has the ability to control his internal organs too, like her? Can all mutants do that?  
  
“Enjoying the view, little girl?” He asks, sneering the entire time. “It’s okay. Take your time. I know this must be your first time coming face-to-face with real power.”  
  
In retaliation, Constance roughly pushes the palm of her hand against his chest so she can push him against the wall. He allows it somehow, and it angered her that she couldn’t get under his skin as easily as he’s been able to. Her fingers dig into the suit next, like she’s attempting to pry his chest open just to make sure he even has a beating heart.  
  
Nobody responds swiftly by grabbing either side of her helmet and shoving her against the opposite wall. The impact hurt her back, considering he had no qualms putting his weight into that movement. He then pushes a knee between her thighs so he can force them to part. Wriggling, she grabs his wrists and digs her nails with every ounce of strength to get him to let go.  
  
“I may be human-borne,” he half-whispers against her helmet as the curtailed rage in his tone makes his heartbeat spike significantly before quieting down once more, “But I don’t subscribe to Earthling code of ethics nor are my actions colored by gender bias. So that means even if you are a woman, the so-called ‘fairer sex’ of your race, I will still annihilate you the next time you dare challenge me again.”  
  
His smile turns deadly as he breathes hard enough so that fog spreads on the glass of her helmet. “Nothing personal or ‘sexist’, just your standard, ‘I’m more biologically evolved and genetically superior, while you’re just a germ that never reached its fullest potential. Got it?”  
  
Nobody releases his chokehold on her helmet—only to latch his fingers around the collar that binds her powers into a dormant state. Her body collides against his in an instant, as the heated proximity makes her queasy with repulsion and fear.  
  
“Also, don’t mistake my companions’ benign treatment right now as an invitation to be our equals,” he quips, “You are our prisoner, Lovelace—fierce, lonely, trapped little Lovelace—” he tightens his grip on the collar, “—and the fact that you’re a mutant human does you no favors. It only makes me want to break you more.”  
  
Constance swallows her fear and spits back, “I think you are more afraid of what you are than me, you self-loathing bile of a man!”  
  
Even though she knew it’s useless, she still scratches her nails on his hand that’s keeping her in place. The words that come spilling out of her mouth is spoken in mad haste and panic, but they were coherent nonetheless: “And me being here is just a reminder of the home you never got to be a part of. Only someone so insecure would demean another person who reveals something they dislike about their reflection!”  
  
Nobody goes silent yet again, much like his heartbeat. And then in the next instant he tears the helmet from her head and smashes his mouth against hers. Constance is stunned stupid that she doesn’t react until his teeth burrows into her bottom lip, drawing a lot of blood as it bursts and drips down her chin. She screeches and just starts swinging her arms to hit him anywhere her fists can reach. The coppery taste upon her tongue only makes her want to murder him more, so she grabs him by his head too and bites him back. As soon as she withdraws, she could feel a chunk from his lip pressed between her incisors.  
  
He drops her, and Constance immediately collides to the floor on shaky knees, her head dizzy with fury and delirium all at once. She gains awareness long enough to hear the bastard laughing. Her hand closes around her mouth as she suppresses the tears from falling out.  
  
“Whoo!” Nobody exclaims as he paces on his spot, sounding as excited as he is agitated. He’s breathing heavily too and after several more seconds he is grabbing her by the elbows so he can pull her to her feet. Constance doesn’t resist only because of shock and despair. She even finds herself clinging onto his arm.  
  
“Alright, alright, get a hold of yourself…” he pats her head and the gesture is so tender that she wants to puke. “We’re good. I think we both proved something today, didn’t we?”  
  
“Yeah,” she wheezes out as her bottom lip quivers in pain, “You’re a monster. Don’t care what else you are. You’re just plain terrible. Piece of shit…let me go…get the fuck off—”  
  
Somebody clears their throat. Constance couldn’t turn around since she was still trying to recover from that indecipherable level of violence exchanged that feels more of a mind fuck than anything physical. But soon enough she heard Orphan’s voice:  
  
“Um, guys, when you’re done making out—or committing a new kind of fetish by the looks of it—we really need you both to get your shit together so we can meet the merchants.”  
  
Lonesome’s voice booms around the conclave too, transmitted by a device: “Seriously, Nob. We are already late.”  
  
“Leave me alone!” Constance pushes Nobody, but he wouldn’t let go. Instead he had Orphan pick up the helmet so he can slide it over her head again. She fights him, but it’s a struggle she lost in the end as both men hold her in place before they eventually drag her for as long as it takes. She keeps kicking and screaming across the floor, until she’s far too tired to keep up the resistance. Disassociating was something that happened to her before, and that’s exactly what’s taking place now.  
  
It does take more considerable time but pretty soon she’s vertical and exiting the spacecraft with the gait of someone intoxicated, unable to distinguish where she was going or what she must do, up until the point she starts paying attention to the interface, at the information plastered on the screen before her eyes. Reading it helps find some semblance of sanity again, but it doesn’t dull the ache of her wounded lip, nor could it quell the rage that turned her heart colder than it has never been before.  
  
This planet looks like an endless stretch of rocky desert. She still knows that it couldn’t be Earth though, judging by what the interface describes as ‘four moons’ hanging low in the green-tinted sky.  
  
Meanwhile, the three men are gliding ahead in a pace that seems almost considerate of her condition, as if they’re purposely giving her enough allowance to keep up. They had those transparent ‘floaties’, making it easy for her to distinguish which is who, though the interface of her helmet also helps sort through that.  
  
“How far do we have to go?” she calls out once she’s just a few feet away. It occurs to her that they may not be able to hear (let alone communicate), but then a transmission connects with her helmet, so that she can hear Lonesome’s voice pipe up with a ready answer.  
  
“We have to reach a launch pad,” he explains, “It’s just another twenty yards. If you walk with us, we can talk for a bit so you won’t even notice the distance. We had to park in a more discreet location because it’s protocol. You okay there?”  
  
His tone of concern may be a product of more pragmatic reasons (even apathy), but between the creepily cheerful Orphan and the rapist-in-the-making Nobody, she’d rather associate with Lonesome at this point. She increased her pace of walking, though with the gravity (or lack thereof?) the movements of her feet were more fluid, like she keeps sliding over sand beneath the sea than actually touching the ground. But she gets the hang of it just in time as she half-stumbles closer to Lonesome’s left side.  
  
“Easy there,” he encircles his fingers around her forearm and guides her footing for a few more paces before he lets go. He then offers, “We do have a balm for cuts and other forms of open wounds. It seals the damaged skin or muscle within minutes after being applied. But it’s back at the ship, in one of those kits we showed you earlier.”  
  
“Thanks,” she mutters. Constance waits for a moment before she inquires, “What is this thing you said you needed to pick up?”  
  
“That would be vibranium,” the man replies as he keeps his eyes forward. His composure is the perfect mask of serenity, like he couldn’t be bothered, “It’s one of the more bestselling commodities on this part of the galaxy, and Mojoworld has a standing contract that does need to be renewed at the moment. Showing up late might be detrimental.”  
  
“Maybe your vassal shouldn’t have assaulted me then.”  
  
Lonesome hums, non-committal. And then he glances at her to say, “No one has ever provoked such a reaction from him, you know. You’re definitely a mutant I’d watch out for.”  
  
Constance narrows her gaze, “I don’t think he needs any reason to be a dick. And if you’re telling me it’s somehow my fault, then you’re just as bad as he is.”  
  
“But I never claimed to be any good,” Lonesome chuckles, but the mirth doesn’t reach those ice-cold blue eyes. “I just find it counterproductive to engage in a power struggle with a captive. Believe it or not, Nobody upholds the same principle. Something about you just rubbed him the wrong way, I guess.”  
  
“Still isn’t a reason to try and bite my face off,” she hugs herself for a second or two before dropping her arms to the side because she worries that such a stance would make her look even weaker and more defenseless than how she already feels.  
  
Lonesome doesn’t say anything to that. While engaging with her, the two men on his right side have probably drifted off to a conversation of their own. It’s only after they’ve arrived to this launch pad that Nobody circles around to reach Constance’s spot. She doesn’t move, determined to pretend he doesn’t exist for as long as her mind can trick itself. He stands there, looking at her, as she keeps her gaze fixed on the pad. It looked like it could fit six people on top of it.  
  
“You first,” he commands Orphan who happily obliges, followed by Lonesome. For a split second she’s afraid he may want to isolate her once more, but that doesn’t seem to be the case because he’s also stepping onto the pad next. He turns to her and raises his hand. Suddenly, the suit she has on just moves, disobeying every instinct in her body that still fights back. She digs her heels on the ground beneath her feet, but it’s futile. Whatever Nobody is doing, it’s enabling him to operate her suit with a mere gesture of his hand.  
  
Great, just when Constance hasn’t felt oppressed enough, he whips this to his advantage. Only her desire for vengeance is preventing her from sobbing and screaming. She will get past this, so for now she will lay in wait, all while looking for opportunities to either strike or escape.  
  
“Listen,” Nobody remarks as they stand together on the pad. It activates before a computer-generated voice begins to say something in a language she couldn’t understand.  
  
“I know I’m not your favorite person right now.”  
  
She waits for him to continue that very accurate observation. However, he doesn’t even spare her a glance as he adds:  
  
“And I’m utterly delighted by that.”  
  
A blinding light obscures her vision next as every fiber of her physical being vibrates and in the next moment she isn’t in some desolate void of a landscape anymore but rather transported in an open space filled with—well, more aliens. There are now so many creatures of indiscernible origin gathered in dozens of groups as they stroll around and talk among themselves across what looks to be a marketplace. She glances around before she inches closer to Lonesome.  
  
“Sorry, kid,” he nudges her with his elbow, “But where Ori and I are going, you can’t come with. The vassal will take care of you—”  
  
“No!” she grabs his arm, “Please. Not him.”  
  
Lonesome blinks. He lifts his gaze to meet Nobody’s. Afterwards he places his own hand on top of hers. “I’m not in charge; he is. And I don’t think he’s going to hurt you anymore. Give him another chance.”  
  
Constance shakes her head and holds onto him more tightly.  
  
Sighing, the man sternly pries her hand with a strength she did not account for, but she also senses that he’s careful not to bruise her either. For that, she will trust him just a little.  
  
“You’re brave,” he remarks, “Braver than we expected. You can do this. And I’ve been friends with our vassal here for a very long time. You just caught him in the worst moment. He’s a real sweetheart once you get to know him.”  
  
Orphan interrupts by adding, “Honestly, I thought what you and him were doing earlier was some sort of mating ritual. It’s peculiar, bloodier than I expected, but also pretty hot.”  
  
“Shut up!” Constance snaps at him. And he just laughs.  
  
She slowly turns to look at Nobody. His expression is completely unreadable, even with the helmet’s aid. It can’t provide her with any more information, just the facts of his nature laid bare and hardly the savagery that lurks in what she guesses is a black mass of a heart.  
  
“Fine,” she regards Nobody with a sharper tone. She licks her wounded lip as she warns him once, “But if you try any of that shit again, I will kill you. I don’t care how, but I’ll find a way. Don’t test me on that.”  
  
She moves forward, closing in on him without fearing repercussions. Her proximity to where he stands, unmoved, was her choice; it’s an abject protest to the fact that he had made a prey out of her before.  
  
_No more_. “I’ve had men who came after me way worse than you did, and I ended them without even regretting it afterwards.”  
  
“Nice,” Orphan quips before Lonesome pulls him out of that spot so they can leave to fulfil their assignment.  
  
Nobody keeps watching her in that uneasy intense way he’s prone to demonstrate. He doesn’t smile or scoff or offer any kind of human reaction as he answers, “I never expected otherwise. You’re a fine catch, Lovelace. I’m enjoying what little time we’ve spent so far.”  
  
He glances towards the marketplace as a ghost of a smile finally flickers on his own blood-caked lip that matched hers.  
  
“And it’s not going to end as easy as you think.”

* * *

**ﾒ**

**[@HEARTLYKGRENADE](https://twitter.com/heartlykgrenade) **

**ﾒ**

* * *


End file.
